


A Long Way From Home

by Brittany (drowninginaseaofdepression)



Series: Hope In The Air [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, New York, Pack Dynamics, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, drunk parents, mentions of drug abuse and self harm, pack pushes stiles away, tw: child abuse, tw: eating disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninginaseaofdepression/pseuds/Brittany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"New York? Lydia, we don't have the money to afford New York. Unless you plan on conning your parents, in which case I might have to reconsider my completely platonic feelings for you."</p><p>She rolls her eyes. "We might not have the money, but I know who does."</p><p>He squints. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"</p><p>"How do you feel about Derek Hale?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Way From Home

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr-itsagameioftenplay  
> I'm sadly lacking a beta at the moment, so there's that. Feel free to point out mistakes or inaccuracies!

At first, Stiles isn't sure he's hearing them right.

"You want me to _what_?"

Isaac looks like sinking through the floor is a good option. Stiles agrees with him.

"I want you to pretend to date me so that the witch doesn't have a reason to go after Allison." Scott says, impatient.

Allison, who's sporting shiny new golden eyes and sharp white teeth.

"But it's fine for him to go after me, right?" Stiles's voice is flat. He avoids looking at Scott and Isaac, staring at a spot on the table in front of him and seething.

The cafeteria provides a white noise for him to focus on. He's trying not to lash out at Scott, already knowing it won't do any good. It's hard not too these days- Stiles is almost always stuck in a permanent state of irritation when around the younger boy. So much that he almost doesn't notice it when Scott makes a frustrated sound and sets his fork down a little too hard. Things have been tense between them since Allison, even if it isn't his fault she got stabbed.

No, that's a lie. It started the night he got Scott bitten and turned him into what he deems a monster. The cavern between them only continued to widen over the next year and a half. The sword thing? The one that lead to Allison being rushed to the hospital as she lost too much blood, making it so Scott had no choice but to bite her or watch her die? That only served to slam the final wedge firmly between them.

Deaton explained a week after the night at the school that the fox spirit didn't just have one goal, that chaos wasn't as straight forward as a simple need for destruction.

Justice. Revenge. Those two go hand and hand with chaos.

It took a host and then did all the things Stiles would never in his right mind have done, because of morals and forgiveness and understanding and a million other things nugistine's don't have.

The best way Deaton could explain it was to imagine you have an older sister. She's popular, she's pretty, she got the guy you've been crushing on for months: she has everything you could possible want and you resent her for it. You know that logically it's not her fault since she can't help genetics or high school hierarchy. But you still resent her, even if you love her and know that it's in no way her doing.

The nugistine doesn't care about logic. It doesn't care about love. It just knows that she hurt you, and that's all that matters.

So with Scott.

Stiles had been frustrated with the lack of attention-and maybe Stiles blamed Scott for not taking him more seriously when he expressed his concerns about being possessed-blamed him for the gap between him. The nugistine took that and leveled it into stabbing Scott, even if regular Stiles would never in a million years do that. It was just enough for Scott to feel a fraction of the pain Stiles did on a daily business. A butchered sense of justice.

Or with Allison and how he blamed her for chaining two teenagers up in her basement and let them be tortured while she slept upstairs. There was a more resentment there than with Scott apparently, because the nugistine tried to kill her instead of maul her a bit like with everyone else. Stiles had channeled some of his anger from Scott's and his split onto her.

He tried hard to fight it. Everyone's face says he should've tried harder, though they're all too polite to say it out loud. They're right, because some part of him enjoyed it, and now any way he can contribute helps lesson the guilt a little. Since Derek left, nightmares where Allison chains him to a tree and tells him that it's his fault she died have come back in full force. There's no screaming, no twisted facial expressions-just cold detachment when she tells him. Blames him. Nightmares where Erica laughs at him from behind rotten flesh and stringy blond hair, where Boyd dies begging Stiles to stop. Where Allison stands by and tells him _see? I told you you'd do it again_. Sometimes he's the one driving an axe right into Heather's heart, in others it's Allison shooting Derek full of arrows while Scott holds him in place, a bright red and blue target painted on his bare chest.

Everyday he has to watch what happened did to his friends. Scott's tougher, more snappy. Lydia's isolating herself and Allison's back to acting more like she did when her mom died, only directed more to anyone who isn't Scott. Lydia and Stiles get the full force of her anger most days. Of everyone's. Years ago he use to fantasize about Lydia realizing how much they have in common, but never like this.

"Yes. I mean, _no_. Fuck." Stiles lifts his head up and watches Scott run a hand through his hair. "I just meant that we don't want the witch knowing we're friends with the Argents yet. They're a last resort, and if we're lucky he won't be prepared for hunters."

Stiles tries not to glare."We're already pretty sure it's our Algebra teacher who's been slaughtering old people, Scott. Don't you think that the chances of him not knowing are pretty high already?"

Scott sighs,"But he knows I'm seeing someone. These," Scott jerks down the neck of his shirt to shows off an array of bruises,"don't make themselves. He was very adamant about me bringing my plus one when he invited me to dinner. You know, for _bonding_ time?"

Adamant. At least he knows Scott's still hitting the dictionaries

Stiles stays silent and watches as Kira enters the lunchroom. She walks to a table on the other side of the cafeteria, not sparing them a glance as she sits with Allison. It's unnoticeable to anyone who doesn't know what to look for, but the tense line of their shoulders stand out to Stiles. Whatever had been between Kira and Scott seems to have fizzled out on his end after turning Allison. Now, months later, and all three of them are still dancing around each other. Isaac had done the smart thing and declared he didn't want anything to do with it.

It had been Stiles idea for them to interact as little as possible in front of others, so if something like this happened it would be harder for the whole pack to be linked to each other. This way, even though the witch had an idea of what Scott was and by extension suspected Isaac and Stiles, he had no reason to look twice at the others. Lydia thinks the only reason he had suspicions about Scott is because the extra spark that make's him an alpha make's it easier for supernatural creatures to identify him. It also means that Scott looks like an Alpha without a strong pack: weak and defenseless.

In Stiles experience, being underestimated is the key to survival.

The pack split into three groups at school after Lydia broke down and begged Jackson to come back from his stay in London. It was one of many of spur of the moment decisions she's started to make only to regret them hours later, but by then Jackson had already hopped on a plane and was on his way back.

Jackson and Lydia sit at what had been their regular table before everything started, the one where beautiful and popular people go to mingle and look down upon everyone else. They openly shared a distaste for Scott and Stiles, something that provides an even bigger of a cover for everything. Acting, he had to remind himself. Still, sometimes Jackson's shoves feel a little too real. Who would suspect the school bullies and nerds were secretly meeting up in the woods? Danny doesn't seem to buy it, if the questioning looks he keeps shooting everyone are anything to go by.

Kira and Allison jump to different tables on a daily basis, though usually end up alternating between sitting with the swim team and art ehnthusiastics.

Isaac, Scott, and he mostly sit together because after everything they've gone through, they're still nobodies. He makes sure they avoid the table nearest to the lunch line and right wall at all costs. There's only so much he can be reminded of Boyd before he wants to puke. The missing posters still littering the hallways are more than enough.

There's groups of people at school who he tries to avoid, a group who makes him prefer the disdainful looks and murmurs he's become use to over the years. The group of people who are afraid of him, or in awe. The bigger group. Whispers of,"Didn't that Stilinski kid try to kill Argent?" or "I heard he kidnapped Jackson Whittemore and stole his girlfriend in the process." And his favorite,"I thought he killed a whole bunch of hospital staff? He's lucky his dads the sheriff or he'd be fucked."

They agreed to Stiles's plan easily enough, probably because they saw his need to be helpful after everything. It was a pity agreement. Sometimes he thinks they'd completely ice him and Lydia out if they could so they can go back to playing normal without the constant reminders of what happened. Lydia, because they're all afraid she'll start screaming at any moment, and Stiles because he wears the face of their worse nightmares. Even Scott might, if he didn't feel responsible for what he thinks Stiles may do if left unattended. They look at him like he's a loose canon about explode, so they tiptoe around him and quickly change the subject if he brings up what happened. Like if they mention it he'll suddenly start stabbing people again. (He wants to scream at them to _stop looking at me like, I'm still Stiles! You know me!_ )

Three weeks ago people started disappearing and turning back up ritually butchered. Scott had told them not to get involved, that Deaton could handle because they needed to focus on school, something nether Lydia or he took kindly too. Who has time for school when you might be the only ones who're able to stop a string of murders?

It wasn't until Scott and Stiles were passing the new teachers classroom during lunch and heard him chanting in Latin, only for said teacher to take an interest in Scott the next day, were they forced to get involved, to prepare. They put two and two together and realized that the same time Mr. Lazer showed up was the same time old people started seemingly blinking out of existence. Mr. Lazer invited Scott and a plus one to dinner at his house under the guise of getting to know his students better, but more than likely has to do with scooping out the local supernatural creatures.

Still. Even simply the thought of faking to be Scott's boyfriend makes him cringe.

"We have more than enough evidence to support him being the killer, dude. Now we just need to spray him with that liquified mountain ash Deaton made, and that's that. Either he's the witch and we kill him or he's not and seeing you with Allison won't do anything."

Scott shakes his head,"What if he gets away? Then she'll be a target. Or what if he's not and word that we showed up together gets around?"

Stiles sighs,"Scott, buddy, you do realize you could just claim it was a one time thing, right?"

"But I'm always showing up with them smelling like perfume and with lipstick stains. Besides-we can't kill him!"

Stiles clenches his jaw."Do you have any other plans? Because that's the only option we currently have. Unless you want to let him continue murdering people and hope he moves on soon. And really? Just say you couldn't find anyone or that she's a fuck buddy. Hell, just say she's busy! I don't want to get involved with this. You guys don't get to ice me out on the supernatural front because your scared it's too much for me, and then act offended when I don't want to help as a last resort. That's not how this works."

"We don't ice you out!" Scott protests, then pauses."Okay, maybe a little. But we're just worried about you. You...haven't been the same. We just want you to recover and constantly running for your life and trying to save others doesn't help. We only come to you when we have no other choice because helping us doesn't help you."

Stiles feels tired, tired of fighting, of arguing. He doesn't point out that the last time he got involved with anything supernatural his dad got drunk off his ass and grounded him for two weeks. He doesn't point out Isaac could just go, or even Kira since Allison seems to be the only one who's welfare he's concerned about. He doesn't tell Scott he doesn't have the right to decide what is and isn't best for him. Instead, he says, "Okay, I'll do it." Because that's easier than arguing with him.

The whole reason there had been such a public "breakup" between the group, followed by rumors Lydia helped spread about an orgy gone wrong (but the whispers of murder and mayhem and betrayal are more popular) was so nobody would question it when they all stopped hanging out together, after how close they had been before. The last thing he wants to happen is for all that to fall apart because of a careless mistake. Better safe than sorry is the motto that got them to the point of splitting into groups. It's the reason that the pack meetings are held around the Nemeton and everyone takes separate routes to get there, or why a patrol's been set up around the town. It's why all their houses ether have wards, the first thing Deaton had taught Lydia and him to use, mountain ash, or a combination of both. It's why everyone knows basic magic and self defense. It's why the werewolves all had the scents of anything that could be held against them memorized, why they all carry a weapon when walking around the woods. It's why Lydia is giving Latin lessons to them, why Allison has them learning to use a bow, Kira the katana, and Stiles teaches them to use a gun.

It's why they're still alive.

One day, when the pack is stronger and better trained, they'll stop sneaking around together. But until then every potential one up is a matter between life and death. Because they aren't strong at the moment-barely even a pack in anything but the word.

The twins, who had dropped out of school, are only there because Scott seems unable to find anything wrong with them. Nobody really trusts them, least of all Cora, who occasionally visits from wherever the hell her and her brother fucked to. Still, something about making them omegas after everything that they had been through didn't sit right with Stiles, even if he hates them a bit.

Allison and Kira had a bit of a mutual "fuck you" attitude going on, and Isaac's back to flinching whenever someone moves too fast near him. Lydia could barely look Stiles in the eye for more than a few seconds (and he knows she hated that, because her eyes would get all pinchy in irritation and self loathing after she looked at the ground) after the night at the school, but now usually opts to sit closer to him than the others or to text him observations throughout the day because she's just as lonely as he is. Jackson only just tolerates anyone who isn't her and Stiles, of all people. He look at Scott like he's a puppy only put up with so he doesn't get his feelings hurt, and at Isaac like he's grown a second head almost every time he opens his mouth. Lydia strongly dislikes Scott, pissed that his blatant disregard of her warnings and need to save the day almost got five people killed. Stiles seems to have a problem with liking and hating everyone in the group at the same time. Surprisingly, Jackson and Lydia are the only one's he ever feels even remotely normal around. He doesn't treat Stiles like he's glass and about to break. God knows your fucked when you start thinking of Jackson fondly.

It's a miracle they don't make a trip to the hospital every time they're within five feet of each other, though that's mostly due to the werewolves ability to heal

Scott is deaf to the problems of the group dynamic and Stiles... Well, in all honestly he doesn't really like any of them anymore. It's like sitting in a room full of strangers who're wearing his old friends faces. Ironic, considering that out of all of them he's the one who wouldn't actually know how that feel's like. Not even Scott can stop him from digging out an old notebook from under his bed and planning his escape

A quick glance over shows Isaac and Scott both staring longingly at where Allison is sitting.

Fuck, he doesn't even want to know.

He pushes his food around half heartily. He's barely eaten the last two months, after finding the hunger pains helped keep him awake and by extension, the nightmares away. Stiles hadn't realized how much sleeping with Derek helped until he up and left a month after that night at the school. Only then had he resorted to withholding food, found out by complete accident. It's not like Stiles can blame him for leaving-he's never been good at goodbyes ether. Besides, he knows what it's like to want to say goodbye to someone but be terrified seeing them will make you stay.

Later that night he pulls up the Wikipedia page on eating disorders and wraps a loose hand around his wrist.

...

The plan is to go something like this: Scott and Stiles will be going to dinner at Mr. Lazers house at eight on the dot. Scott will have a speaker hidden in the folds of his tie and Stiles will have a small camera attached to the ring on his finger, so that he can strategically lean his cheek on his hand and give everyone a perfect view of the teacher. It'll be hidden in a small black gem, curtesy of Jackson's parents, who nobody's really sure do for a living. Allison, Isaac, and Lydia will be waiting in a van parked half a block away, watching and listening on a computer hooked up in the back. Stiles will spray their teacher with the liquidized mountain ash disguised in a cologne bottle after asking him to smell it. Then, depending on whether he shifted, ether the other three would come busting in or they'd eat a lovely meal and try not to secretly suspect the new teacher of being a pedophile.

"So what you're saying," Stiles asks, waving a forkful of spaghetti in the air but not actually eating it,"is that either way we'll be leaving the house traumatized?"

Not that they aren't all already.

Jackson looks unimpressed. Or, at least, Stiles thinks he does. It's hard to tell with the fake nose and mustache he has on. Everyone occasionally duns disguises so they can go out in public together. It's impressive that, even while wearing an unflattering hoodie and bushy black wig, Lydia can still level him with the look of her glare.

"It's going to work. Now man up and stop whining," she says. It comes out muffled but still fierce.

"Ma'm, yes ma'm." He mutters, setting his forkful of food down and ignoring Allison's amused snort. They're sitting in a small booth, and even though they're two people removed he still feels too close. Being near her makes his skin crawl. All he can think about when he hears the lilt of her voice is _Erica, Boyd, pain, Erica_. The others in the pack may have forgotten, but he hasn't.

He can't, not anymore then he can stop seeing Derek and Boyd's face when he looks at the twins, then he can stop hearing Cora's screaming or the thud of dirt as they bury the two betas in the preserve. How can you look someone in the eye when you know they can sleep perfectly fine while teenagers are being tortured on their command, just two floors beneath them?

He takes a small bite, small enough that when he goes to clean his mouth he can easily stick his tongue out and wipe the food away with the napkin, then bunch it in a ball and slid it under the ridge of his plate.

He turns to Scott and puts on a cheery face,"Dude, this is awesome, you have to try it." Before he can answer he picks up Scott's already almost empty plate and scoops at least half of his food onto it, thankful he ordered a small plate and it's not actually that much. Then, he turns to his other side and swiftly puts his piece of bread on Aiden's. When he opens his mouth to protest, Stiles just shakes his head and says,"My dad tried it last time I forced him to come here. Pretty sure they used too much garlic, but he liked it. Try it." Which isn't actually a lie. He did force his dad to come here during a lunch break, and it does look like too much garlic's been loaded onto it. So what if it sounds like he's been here before and tried it? He can't help how they intepret what he says. Stiles favorite past time is coming up with ways to get around their werewolfy lie detector.

Aiden looks like he wants to say something but decides against it, looking at the bread like its been poisoned (a tempting idea) before turning back to Kira.

Scott's already eating the spaghetti, grinning around a bitefull and giving him a grateful look when Stiles turns to look at him. Damn werewolves and their metabolism.

He tunes out the people around him talking, more interested in the way people walk in the door and stop, doing a double take when they see the booth the packs sitting at. Not that Stiles blames them. He imagines they make quite a picture.

As he watches, he mindlessly mashes and moves his food around his plate, creating the image of a emptier one. It's not until a blonde women walks in the door does he stop, breath catching and barely stopping himself from calling out a small "Heather?" He slumps back in his chair when the women turns around, taking note of her stubby nose and sharp cheeks. Of course it's not Heather. Heather's dead. Stiles would know since he identified the body.

He doesn't notice he's shaking until he goes to pick up his glass of water and catches Lydia staring at him and then at his plate, calculating. No one else notices, so in an effort to quell whatever he knows must be going on in her head, whatever she's putting together (he's seen her selection of diet books and abundance of scales. Ninth grade summer and the stretch of her skin over her ribs still weighs heavy in his head), he picks his fork up and eats the rest of the spaghetti on it, chewing a few dozen times and then gulping down more water. When he looks back up, she's talking to Allison about European fighting styles, turned away from him. It's the first time he's seen them talk in weeks. Not that Lydia really talks to anyone except him anymore. She pretends Aiden doesn't exist and has only just started warming back up to Jackson, still pissed he left her in the first place.

"How's your history paper coming along?" Jackson asks from across him.

Jackson, bless him, sometimes may not particularly like Stiles but has apparently decided to take pity. Maybe it's because he, like Stiles, feels just as out of place. At least he's trying, even if it's only a step up from "nice weather we're having". Ethan tried that once until Stiles glared him away. Light conversation he can do, but he draws the line at that. Not that anyone tries to discuss anything heavier than schoolwork or potential threats around town with him, and even those are rare.

Stiles thinks they're scared he'll snap (sometimes he is too) if they do, and instead try to avoid talking about what happened, what Stiles was forced to do. Even Jackson gets surprisingly closed mouth when he mentions it near Stiles and stalks away, so someone most have filled him in at one of those secret meetings they think he doesn't know about. Later he'll side Stiles a candy bar when nobody's looking in ways of an apology, though. He knows that if they could they wouldn't have told him about the witch, that they would have kept him out of it and dealt with it themselves like with the trolls last month. They think he didn't notice that ether. Stiles hasn't been able to figure out if it's because they're protecting him or because they don't trust him.

It's both, he knows its both, sees it in their shifty eyes and halting words.

He doesn't think about how nice it would be if everyone stopped skirting around the issue and just talked to him. He doesn't think about how his dad looks older every time Stiles mentions the supernatural, or how Morell, the only supernatural therapist he's met and probably the only one out there, has dissapeared. If he did, he'd probably resent the pack a little, as they have outlets in each other but have effectively iced him and Lydia out on that front. But he doesn't think about it. Really.

"I'm finished, actually. I already had the history of King Arthur memorized, along with all the myths and speculations. Bit of a fifth grade phase." Stiles grins, shoving food in his mouth and swallowing, ignoring the way it makes him nauseous.

Jackson finally looks mildly impressed, and Stiles thinks its because of the paper until he eyes his plate and says,"I've always thought you were a bit of a black hole. Where the hell do you put all that?"

Stiles forces himself to smile and take one last bite, glancing down to see his plate looks almost empty. At least, enough that he can get away with complaining of a stomache ache.

"What can I say? It's a talent. Excuse me." He pushes his plate away and stands up, barely getting a glance of acknowledgement from the others before he's weaving between tables and people to get to the bathroom.

Once he pushes open the wooden door marked men, he avoids looking in the mirrors hanging on the wall and pushes down on several of the sink knobs; the ones that time the water for a minute or two. Then he strolls to the last stall, sliding in and locking it.

Stiles pushes his food up without sticking his fingers down his throat, rolling his stomach and clenching the muscles there. He knows his red knuckles will give him away to Lydia, and that the scent of puke clinging to his hands will alert the wolves. He's taken to carrying around gum for these sort of outings.

It's quick, efficient. He doesn't usually make any noises anymore. It's routine now, natural in the way brushing his teeth and hair are. He doesn't think about it, doesn't wallow in the dark late at night and feel sorry for himself or cry. He chose this, not because of his body, but to keep the demons away.

It just is.

He does, however, marvel at the way his stomach starts pushing food up only seconds after he's eaten more than a fistful, enough to stretch his insides. It's like when you're sick and you can feel the puke at the back of your throat, waiting to come up if you let it. The feeling doesn't go away unless he throws up or waits for it to digest, though its uncomfortable, almost painful. If it was happening to someone else he might have spent days staying up late and reading through articles, trying to understand how the body can dispel food just by clenching your stomach muscles the right away. Now, thinking about what his can do makes him sick for an entirely different reason, unrelated to how much he's eaten but because of the ease his new routine holds.

He's kept awake at night for reasons outside of maniac researching. Stiles isn't sure whether his indifference to the situation should worry him (he thinks about his almost empty Adderal bottle and knife at home, the rush of awareness and adrenaline they give him that don't even begin to compare to the way his hunger keeps him awake). He thinks about the surprised looks he got when he walked into school one day with a freshly shaved head. They didn't ask so he didn't tell them he was tired of pulling chunks of hair out in the shower.

Th first time he did it, it wasn't planned. His dad had, in a fit of desperation to reconnect with Stiles, made macoronni and demanded he sit and eat with him, as they barely see each other anymore. After they ate and had a light, safe conversation about school and Stiles was allowed to retreat back to his room he had panicked. It had only been a few weeks but he was already relying on the pain the hunger brought, keeping him awake when the pills can't. He had thought of the endless websites he had gone through after his suspicions concerning Lydia, had thought of the thing called purging he came across constantly on them, and was up and over his trash bin before he could really think about it. It was hard the first time when he chocked and wanted to laugh because wouldn't it be fucking amazing if after everything, barely digested noodles were what took him out? Still, he had pushed on and was suprised at how relieved it made him feel, even as tears and snot and god knows what else covered his face.

He learned soon enough that if he sipped water in between bites it came up easier, that as long a he avoids milk and juice it just tastes like a muted version of it going down, else it was like acid. He tries to avoid puking, though. The only time he does it is was when he caves and binges or is forced into a situation where it would draw attention if he doesn't eat.

He finishes in less than two minutes, silent and quick after months of practice. When he's done flushing he rests his cheek on the cool wall to the right and just breaths, noting the water has turned off. After a few measured breaths he finally stands and stumbles out, pulling out a pack of gum from his back pocket and popping a few pieces into his mouth. He avoid the mirrors again when he goes to wash his hands, which is why he misses the flash of red hair.

"I hoped I was wrong. I thought, not even Stilinski can be that stupid, right?" Stiles doesn't flinch when he hears Lydia, looking up to see her leaning against the wall behind him, expression closed and arms crossed.

He focuses on scrubbing his fingers,"I'm not sure what you're talking about. And if I did, I'd say that makes you a hyprocrite." He replies evenly after a moment.

He ignores her sharp intake of breath and instead turns to the blow dryer, heart racing.

"Stiles, what are you doing?" Her voice is small, trembling. When he turns around her hands have dropped to her sides and she looks lossed, confused.

Stiles sighs and walks to stand by her. "Dealing."

She shakes her head,"That's not dealing, that's destroying yourself. Dealing is taking up knitting or buying a whole new wardrobe that costs a few thousand dollars." She pauses, and then asks,"How long?"

He shrugs."Two months?"

She finally looks at him, eyes wide and wet. "How the hell didn't we notice? No, I know how they didn't. But how did I miss it?"

"You didn't want to notice." Her jaw trembles, so he finally gives in and tugs her to his chest, laughing softly when she squeezes him hard and buries her head in his neck. Two years ago and he would've killed someone to be in this situation, and now he can't think about her in any way but a friendly way.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, the words muffled."I was avoiding you at the beginning, punishing you for something you didn't even do. If I hadn't, maybe you...maybe we wouldn't be having this conversation." She squeezes him again and flinches slightly,"And maybe you wouldn't be a bag of bones, Jesus."

"Lydia, this isn't your-"

She pulls back a little and glares at him,"Don't even fucking finish that sentence. I could have been there and we both know it."

He closes his eyes and doesn't argue,"We should get back before they start to come look for us."

Her face twists,"Who? The twins? Funny. Scott? He can't see past the light shining out of Allison's ass." At Stiles shocked expression she gives him a sharp look,"You know it's true, even if she is my friend. Or was, I guess. My point is that nothing short of being murdered, they'd rather avoid you and me so they can pretend they're all normal still."

A lead like feeling settles heavy in his gut. "Jackson would look for you."

She actually laughs at that,"Yeah, maybe. But who would help him? He barely has a handle on his wolf. They've been icing him and me out as much as they've been doing it to you, they're just less blatant about it." She steps back and goes to the mirror, pulling lipstick from her purse. "Lets just get out of here."

He raises an eyebrow. "We're seated right by the front door, in case you didn't notice."

She smirks, then points over at a small window on the far wall."Boost me up, and then I'll give you a hand?"

He smiles, a genuine one for what seems like the first time in years. "Sounds irresponsible. Let's do it." He isn't worried about what Scott and the others will think or do. He wants to act like a normal teenager for once.

She grins back, finishes touching up her makeup, and then marches over the the window, sharp heels clicking on the marble. Lydia pushes it up and shoves her purse through before looking back to tilt her head at Stiles ."Come on, give me a lift."

He hurries over to cup his hands for her to step on, and once she's through Lydia reaches back in and helps pull him up easily.

"Jesus,"she huffs. She stands from where she got on her knees to help him and brushes the dirt off, giving an old man to their right a dirty look when he stares judgemently at them."You're barely heavier than a stack of National Geographic magizines."

He blushes and she ignores it in favor of grabbing his hand, holding a finger up to her lips and tugging him against the wall."Listen."

The bathroom door swishes open and a familiar voice calls out to Stiles.

"You in here, dude?" Scott hollers, steeping in and pushing stalls open. Stiles peeks down slightly and sees him swing the last one open, pause, and then shrug. Scott walks back out and tells someone he must have left.

Once they hear they the door slam shut again they're running, tripping over concrete and laughing.

"I thought you said they wouldn't come looking?" Stiles gasps when they finally reach his jeep. He fishes his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the doors."And how the hell do you run in those?"

She gives him an unimpressed look, only answering when she's buckled in and Stiles has started the vehicle. "It's a talent. And Scott didn't sound too worried. I guess we both have a tendency of wondering off."

"No, I'm pretty sure all girls are born with that knowledge, it's scary. Women literally walk on sharp weapons." He doesn't comment on the last part. There's nothing to say.

She hums,"I guess they'd come in handy if we ever encounter any vampires."

"Wait, shit, those aren't real, are they?" He pales.

Lydia gives him a sly look,"I don't know, are they?"

She doesn't talk about what happened in the bathroom the whole ride to her house, instead complaining about her father-who's still trying to buy her affection with increasingly expensive mall trips-and gently poking at Stiles fashion choices. When he suggested going to park she had given him a scandalized look and programmed directions to her house into his GPS. Not that he needs them, but she doesn't need to know that.

....

They end up on Lydia's bed, phones off and home alone. He's laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling while she idly works on math problems. They aren't even the ones the teacher gave her.

"Do you ever think about just getting away?" She asks suddenly, pausing her pen tapping.

Stiles turns to stare at where her face is carefully blank, focused on the work before her.

"Yeah," he finally says,"A lot." Not just a lot, all the fucking time. Lately daydreams of taking a plane to the middle of nowhere had been occurring just as often as ones of swords and guns. He's been working his courage up to talk to his dad about spending next school year with relatives in Redding.

"Then lets do it." She shoots up, making her work fly everywhere, but she pays no attention to it. That's how Stiles knows she's being real. "Let just pack our bags and leave."

He hesitates, biting his lip. The idea sounds appealing."Are you sure?"

Lydia waves her hands around, eyes wild,"You're kidding, right? My moms been talking about sending me to Paris for the next year. She can say it's so I can have a better education all she wants but we all know she can't accept that I'm a banshee. That death follows me no matter what. The pack can barely look at us, I haven't been alone with Allison for over a month, and I can't stand being next to the twins. Scott barely speaks to you about real things and the wonder of the twenty first century is that you can keep in touch with your dad through a screen. Come on, I can't do this alone. I'm tired of fearing for my life. I'm tired of cryptic and unhelpful adults. I'm tired of not being able to sleep because what if I miss a call? What if another alpha pack rides into town and I sleep through it? Eventually something worse is going to come Stiles, and call me selfish but I don't want to be here for that. I just... I'm just tired. I'm tired of Beacon Hills." She slumps down, collapsing in on herself.

Stiles can count on one hand how many times he's seen Lydia break down, and he can't say he likes it anymore now than he did then. He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. She leans into for a second before pushing the rest of the books and papers off the bed so she can lay down on his chest, curling around him. He internally curses, upset that he had been so caught up in his own misery he forgot to see how Lydia was doing, didn't see she was breaking just as much as he was.

"We're a bit fucked up," He whispers to her,"but that's life, right?"

"What, evil rapey Druids and demon wolves? Must have missed that life lesson."

He runs his hand down her back,"Think we all did. But that's our reality, Lydia. I guess we just have to find a way to deal with all this shit." He takes a deep breathe and exhales slowly,"And if that means running away with you, okay."

She's quite for a moment before she starts giggling. The sound makes him smile, only now realizing he hasn't heard it on a long time,"This sounds like a bad adaption of Romeo and Juliet."

He grimaces,"Hopefully one without us dramatically killing ourself after three days. Twenty bucks says we last at least five." He paused,"So where would we go?"

"Mississippi." She replies immediately.

"Mississippi?" He asks doubtfully, but she doesn't answer.

A comfortable silence settles over them. Stiles is almost asleep when Lydia turns her face up to him, chin over his heart,"You know we'd never work, right? That I can't think of you that way?"

"Mhm," he replies sleepily,"I think I kinda accepted that after the dance. No offense, but I can't ether. You're like the younger sister I never had, which is maybe a little weird, but hey. Story of our life's."

She relaxes even more,"Good. Go to sleep. I'll text your dad and let him know you're staying, and in the morning we can talk."

Thoughts of Mr. Lazer and dinner hit him,"But the plan-"

She cuts him off and pushes down on his chest before he can start getting up."Can be done without you. He can take Isaac, it'll be more believable anyway. Now go to sleep before I knock you out."

"Okay, damn."

....

He wakes up sometime in the night to Lydia and her mom arguing in the hall, voices echoing through the house. The door is cracked open, light spilling into the room. Stiles rubs his eyes and reaches over the bed in search of his phone. He fumbles for a moment before finding it, squeezing his eyes shut when it lights up. Stiles peaks after a moment and frowns when it reads 2:37 am. He ignores his dissapointment when he only sees a few missed calls and messages in favor of stumbling out of bed and into the hall. He's surprised to find he didn't dream at all.

"What's going on?" He croaks, vision blurring before it sharpens. Lydia has one of her hands on Natalie's shoulder, one on the beer grasped tightly in her moms hand. She try's to pry it away but Natalia just tugs it and tries to step back, eyes hooded and voice slurred. "Get away from it, Lydia! I need it. I have to-"

"Shut up," Lydia snaps, finally jerking it out of her grasp."You should be ashamed of yourself. You have work in five hours and if you think I'm letting you call in you're wrong. So go to bed and in the morning you'll take a shower."

"No." Natlie honest to god pouts, grabbing the bathroom doorway when Lydia tries to herd her toward her room.

Lydia glances back at Stiles,"Help me or go back to bed, for gods sake."

He nods dumbly and rushes forward, grabbing one of her arms while Lydia grabs the the other.

Natalia's given up on fighting, instead opting to slump into them and murmur incoherently under her breath. When they get to her room Lydia nods her head at the doorway, silently asking him to stay there while she leads her mom into the room and into her bed. She goes easily, only twitching a little when Lydia tucks her in, face drawn and tired. Lydia stands over the bed for a moment, staring down at Natalia before abruptly shaking her head and walks toward one of the bedroom windows. She unclasps it and, after a brief moment of hesitation, throws the bottle in her hand as far as she can. The sound of shattering glass is loud in the quite neighborhood.

She stands for a second, head tilted back.

"Lydia?" Stiles asks softly. He's not sure what to make of everything, confusion and sorrow mixing into dawning horror. He knows what its like to have a drunk as a parent, knows how they get when they drink too much and their tongue (or stomach) gets a little too loose.

Lydia turns around and holds a hand up "Not here." She marches past Stiles in a breeze of cotton candy and toffee, still soft and rumpled from sleep. He follows obediently, turning the lights on in her bedroom when he gets there. She sits on the bed and nervously plays with a loose thread on her shorts.

"Give me a second." She says, so he takes a seat on her desk chair and waits patiently, using the time to study her and her room. Really study them both, for once.

Lydia's room is pink and white, the wall and blankets matching, but surprisingly bare. Outside of a few photos on the wall, her vanity, and expensive looking clothes spilling out of her closet the room's mostly empty of any personal touches. There's a vase of wilting Dahlia's on her window seal and he absentmindedly wonders if they're from Jackson. Probably not. They aren't dating anymore, even if he still sends her longing looks when he thinks nobody else is looking. And ether way, he doesn't seem like the wooing sort of guy. Not after he gets what he wants.

Stiles isn't surprised that the feeling of jealousy that use to spike up at the mention of Jackson and Lydia isn't there anymore. He still thinks she could do better, but he's fine knowing it won't be with him. He hasn't thought about her like that in almost two years.

Her face is void of makeup, and for the first time he can see the deep bruises under her eyes, the hollow of her cheekbones that comes with stress and no proper sleep. Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun and her tank up is low enough he can see the jut of her collarbones, the pale sickly tone of her thighs and arms easily hidden by sweaters and jeans. She doesn't look like she's been starving, but like... Like she had gone through hell and back and was struggling to come up on the other side, to get a breath of fresh air. She looked like Stiles.

Lydia clears her throat, pulling her knees up to her ches ."When my dad left," she says softly,"It...broke my mom. She started drinking a lot, but was mostly sober enough to do her job. After Scott decided to tell her about everything, decided that we all needed to let our families know, she freaked out. Wouldn't look at me for days. I think she blames herself, but. But she's also terrified of me. She doesn't know what to do, so she gets drunk so she doesn't have to think about it. And, well, you saw."

"Does this happen very night?" Stiles asks quietly.

She nods and he sees her lips start trembling before she can hide her face in her legs. He doesn't say anything, just gets up and sits next to her, pulling her into a hug. Lydia turns and buries her face in his neck. He briefly wonders if ying yanging between emotions like she has been today is a side effect of PTSD.

He pats her back."Fucking Scott," he mutters.

She give a wet laugh,"Fucking Scott," she agrees.

They stay like that for another five minutes before she pulls back, wiping at her eyes. He uses the opportunity to fish his phone back out of where he shoved it in his jeans, turning it on and, after a quick glance at Lydia, scrolls through his messages. The first are from his father.

(6:45)  
Hey Mr. Stilinski, it's Lydia. Stiles passed out, is it fine if he stays the night?

(6: 52)  
**ok. tell him i lov him.**

Stiles smiles and clicks Scott's name, the only other one with a little blue dot by it.

(7:13) _dude were r u???_

(7:15) _this isnt funny com on were waiting_

(7:18) _caled ur dad said ur not ther??_

(7:18) _is this about lunch, r u with lydia_

(7:22) _jackson and aiden r gonna kill u. at the same time. violently_

(7:30) _nvm isaacs coming with me._

(7:49) _NOT A WITCH, JUST A VERY ANGRY DWARF_

(7:50) _BUT HIS WIFE WAS_

(7:57) _had to burn her. dont think teach likes us nmore_

(7:58) _hes packing???_

(8:00) _i think were getting a new teacher_

"Isaac and Scott? Not surprised." Lydia hums from by his shoulder and he jumps, not having noticed her. She's clutching a pair of eye drops and tissues in her right hand, but the other is hidden behind her back.

He furrows his eyebrows,"What do you mean?"

She snorts,"The sexual tension between those three is sickening. Maybe they'll finally get their head out of their asses and act on it."

"I...don't want to think about that."

"None of us do." He shudders.

She smiles and takes her arm out from behind her to thrust a scale in front of his face. He crosses his eyes to look at it and hesitantly takes it,"Thanks...?"

She shakes her head, looking annoyed,"Stand on it."

"Lydia, I don't think that's a good idea." His heart gives a quick thump.

She glares at him,"Do you trust me?"

"Do I-? Of course!" He sounds affronted even to his own ears.

"Then stand on it!"

He shoots her a dirty look but obeys, setting it on the ground and stepping on it to humor her. His eyes widen in surprise when the numbers spin and then stop. Stiles starts laughing.

"What?" Lydia grumbles, hovering.

"That,"Stiles chokes, gesturing toward the sparkly BEAUTIFUL sign,"is not the problem. It's about control, Lydia. And it helps me stay awake at night. Don't get me wrong, this is great and one of the many reason I'll argue with anyone who says I have bad taste, and I'll cherish it forever, but it's not going to fix the problem."

She blinks, stares at him."Oh, is that all?"

"Is that all? Really?" He splutters. "Yes, that's all! I don't have deep seated body issues, Lydia, sorry to dissapoint."

He steps down and she slaps him on the head, hard. "You idiot!"

"Ow." Stiles complains, watching curiously as she strides toward her desk and opens one of the compartments, pulling out a small notebook and pen.

"Sit," she instructs. He flops onto the bed. "Change of plans. We're going to New York." She scribbles something and pulls out her phone.

"New York? Lydia, we don't have the money to afford New York. Unless you plan on conning your parents, in which case I might have to reconsider my totally platonic feelings for you."

She rolls her eyes,"We might not have the money, but I know who does."

He squints,"I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"How do you feel about Derek Hale?" Lydia smirks.

His heart gives another thump, but for a completely different reason. Derek is...annoying. And frustrating, and stubborn, and brave, and exactly Stiles type. "He was pretty cool after he got over his understandable power boner." Stiles says, suspicious.

"Good." She dials a number into her phone and presses call, putting it on speaker,"I'd hate for you to dislike your roommate."

"Wait, what?" Several questions are swimming in his head, starting with how the hell did Lydia get his number and ending with how the hell she knows where he lives, but before he can answer the phone picks up.

"Hello?" The voice is silvery and obviously feminine.

"Cora!" Lydia says, smiling. "I thought you moved out?"

Cora sighs,"No, he's being a mother hen. He wants all his chickens in one place."

"I heard that!" A gruff voice yells, and he can practically hear Cora smirking.

"Good," she yells back,"So, Lydia, why are you calling at ass o clock in the morning?"

Lydia snorts and Stiles stares. He's never heard her do that. Then again, they've never been really close."It's complicated. Look, I need a place to crash for a while. Stiles and Jackson too."

Wait, what?

It's silent for a second, static too loud in the silence. "Hold on," she finally says, and there's the sound of shuffling before a deeper, smoother voice starts talking.

"Stiles, Lydia? What's going on? Are you two hurt?" He's momentarily stunned when he realizes Derek must be able to hear his heartbeat and pick out who it is, and he pushes it into the back of his brain to bug somebody about later.

"Fine Derek." Lydia laughs a little, but it sounds dull,"We just need to get out. Scott's doing a shit job of holding everyone together, and an even shittier job of teaching Jackson. Remember that therapist you told me about? The one who specializes in supernaturals? Could you...book sessions for Stiles and I?"

"You sound confident I'll let you stay." Derek sounds amused, but he doesn't say no.

Stiles makes a grab for the phone and Lydia gives it up easily."Come on, we all know you secretly have a big heart. Besides, I know you'll feel better with us under your roof than us hitch hiking to Alabama and selling our young nubile teenage bodies for food." And it's the truth. Derek can front all be wants but Stiles knows he'd lay down on train tracks for a stranger if he thought it'd save them.

It's quite again. Finally, Derek huffs,"I have conditions."

"Name them." Lydia says immediately. Stiles isn't...entirely opposed to the idea.

"I want you to join my pack." Derek's voice sounds confident, but the fake kind. Stiles spent enough time with him the summer they looked for Erica and Boyd to tell the difference.

Lydia shrugs."Done. God knows you'll be better than Scott." Anybody would be, Stiles thinks bitterly. Scott treats being an Alpha like a job and his pack like annoying associates he'd rather strangle than lead. But...

"Okay, now just a wait a damn moment." Stiles exclaims, and Lydia turns a critical eye on him."Pack? How are you an Alpha again? And since when did Cora live with you?"

"Land dispute,"Derek says shortly,"It's why I left. An alpha with no pack is easy pickings, and with the Nemeton still activated and supernatural creatures swarming in I'd be dead in days. Besides, if you want to build a pack, you go to New York. It's neutral ground. Cora just sort of showed up. Now can I go on?" Stiles is surprised at how easily Derek answers his questions, but he supposes a few months not constantly running for your life does that to a guy.

"Fine." Stiles mutters.

There's another amused snort from down the line. That's new,"Second, you'll go to school."

"No, really?"

Derek ignores him,"You'll live with me. The building I live in is owned by an old family friend. He only lets supernatural creatures live here, which means Stiles is going to have to learn magic. He has the spark for it. Only ones with control though, so that means you'll be taking an apprenticeship as well." Oh, he likes that one. The one about him anyway. Lydia and magic together are two things he never wants to think about."And you'll let me pay for your train tickets." Stiles isn't going to argue with that.

Lydia studies her nails,"Those sound reasonable. Do you have enough rooms? And what about rent?"

"I have the whole top floor, so more than enough. It's a really expensive building, high class. I can pay fine by myself."

Stiles starts grinning,"Are you telling me you're secretly a millionaire?"

"Billionaire, actually." Derek sounds smug,"I'll have Blaze meet you at the train station tomorrow night at ten. Just look for the dark blue hair." The line disconnects.

"That was...anticlimactic." Stiles says after a moment. He's not sure what to think about it. Billionaire? At this point he's going to need to make a psychical list of things to ask later.

Derek and him weren't friends, exactly, but they were close enough that Derek let him touch him freely the weeks before he left. Small ones, a brush of a leg on the bed or a hand on his shoulder, but also big ones like cuddling when he showed up at the flat unannounced with a movie and pizza because Scott was with Allison. They weren't friends in the sense that they knew facts about each other, facts like the others favorite color or most embarrassing moment, but close in the way that they could read each other's body language and sit in comfortable silence, a rarity for Stiles. They were close in the way that Stiles would put his life on the line to save Derek, and had done it several times before. They weren't really friends leading up to when Derek dropped off the face of the earth two months ago, only a few weeks after the nugistine was resealed in a glass bottle, but Stiles was still upset about what they could've had. Romantically or otherwise: because really, it's normal for you to develop a crush on someone who made you discover you aren't exactly opposed to dating your own gender. And sometimes Stiles thinks that eventually they could have had something like that. Could have had a relationship.

A week after the night at the school Stiles still couldn't sleep and he hadn't had anyone to turn to. Not his dad, who took to his Jack Daniels bottle again, not Lydia who had hung out briefly with Jackson after she begged him to come back, not Scott or Allison who were too wrapped up in eachother for the outside world. Not Isaac, who was busy licking his wounds, or Kira who he still didn't know enough. Stiles was well and truly alone.

He ended up slipping out of his bedroom window at one in the morning and making his way to liquor store with his fake ID, only to be stopped by a firm grip and a gentle look in one of the aisles. Derek had asked what was wrong, and for the first time Stiles didn't lie and say he was okay-he had a feeling Derek would listen, really listen without accusations and shifty eyes. So he told him everything, and afterwards Derek had taken the bottle out of his hand, pulled him into a hug, and asked if he'd sleep better with someone beside him.

He said yes.

It became a tradition after that. Derek would show up at ten on the dot and Stile would pop a game or a movie in, and he'd talk. Derek didn't comment often, instead opting to squeeze his arm or offer him a smile-and it was a beautiful one, one that made Stiles heart skip a beat and wait pointlessly for Derek to call him out on it-but listening to Stiles as he told him about the thoughts that had swirled through his mind that day, the thought nobody's else would listen to because they all blamed him, couldn't look at him for more than a few seconds, was enough. Derek was just as lonely a he was.

They may not have known each other, but they understood each other. He withdrew more after Derek left, nothing but a "I'm safe, don't look for me. I'm sorry." written on a piece of stationary and left on his bed for him.

Still, Stiles hasn't blamed him since the first week. By the second day his anger was already slipping through his fingers and settling into understanding, but Stiles had liked the feeling. It was a nice change so he grasped onto it until there was nothing left to hold.

Stiles would've ran away sooner if he had the chance as well. He's too much of a coward to do it on his own, but now that Lydia's by his side he can. And Jackson, apparently. He's a little bitter that she knew where Derek was, but it's not like he left her his number and held a boom box under her window: no, apparently that had been Cora, and later on she passed the house number to Lydia.

He has a lot to discuss with Derek when he sees him. Still, he has to admit that there's a small thrum of excitement racing through his viens.

Lydia shrugs and leans back against the bedrest. The clock reads four am and the stars shine brightly from her window. It's almost a full moon.

"Not really. That was always my fallout plan."

He's not surprised."Why now, though?"

She hesitates,"I... Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yeah. I need to. It'll eat at me otherwise."

She swallows,"Scott was talking to Allison about convincing the Sheriff to put you back in Eichen House. He thinks...he thinks you're unstable and a danger to yourself and the people around you. A lot of the pack agrees."

He feels numb."But not you?"

"You're depressed, Stiles, not crazy. That's why we're going to New York. Derek knows a good therapist you can actually talk to. He's in the know. And it's not just you he was talking about, but me too."

"Why you?" He had his suspicions that something like this might happen, but he had hoped it wouldn't.

She looks away,"I might've blown up on Allison the other day. I get  tired of them playing normal and I lost it," her gaze refocuses,"The point is that he knows how to play our parents and they're both in fragile enough emotional states that they'd agree."

Stiles is stunned. So much for pack.

"I'd say I'm surprised," he murmurs, tired,"But it's been so long since I've been close to Scott that I don't know him well enough to say that anymore."

Lydia looks sad, and he realizes she knows exactly how it feels. Allison wasn't just keeping Scott from Stiles: Scott was keeping Allison from her.

"Are you going to be okay with leaving your dad, Stiles?" She asks softly.

He closes his eyes,"At some point in life you have to put yourself first. I love my dad, but I'm not willing to risk my mental health for this. You willing to leave your mom?"

She shrugs,"We've never been close, but I'll leave her a note just in case."

"And Jackson?"

Lydia bites her lip. "I'm worried about him. He almost wolfed out in History the other day. He'll come if I ask. There isn't anything else for him here."

That's...sad, but true. Except maybe Danny, but even they had drifted apart as a result of such a huge part of Jackson's life being hidden from him.

Stiles changes the subject,"So you and Cora, huh?"

She actually blushes at that,"Somebody had to teach her how to dress."

...

They call in sick and skip school the next day. They're old enough they can do that themselves now, and Natalie only gives them a quick shamed faced glance before scurrying out of the house without so much as a comment. They sleep until noon and then laze around for a few hours, until Lydia finally convinces him to cook them burgers, and to eat one after she throws a bottle of her mom's sleeping pills at him.

"Really?" he asked. Stiles hadn't wanted to bug his dad for them, didn't think they could even afford it.

"Yeah," she shrugged, "She doesn't use them anyway. And you need them more."

They stay close and don't mention what they're about to do in only a few hours, phones turned off. One more afternoon of pretending to be normal kids. It's only when the clock hits six that Lydia finally kicks him out so she can pack and call Jackson, something she had neglected to do until the last moment.

The drive back is dreamlike. Trees pass in a blur of red and orange, the temperature chilly. Kids he knows from school walk home in groups, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks and Starbucks clutched tightly in their clothed hands. He takes a few minutes to drive around town, taking it in ways he hasn't in years. The police station is older and more raggedy looking than it was when his dad first started, and some of the deputies wave as he drives past. The grocery store on the corner looks like its one good push away from collapsing but there's a new farmers marker further down that's still full of people feeling up tomatoes. There's the school, still grey and weathered and filled with memories, some good and bad. It's where Stiles and Scott first met and became best friends, and where they stopped. It's where Scott finally believed he was a werewolf and decided he hated that part of himself, where he met Allison and held her while she slowly bled to (almost) death. It's where Erica had her first seizure and where Jackson kissed Stiles all the way back in first grade, but it's also where her missing posters are turning yellow on the corners and where Jackson use to beat him up at. When he passes the playground where he first met Boyd, he takes a moment to pull over and lean his head against the steering wheel, trying not to have a panic attack. His chest tightens uncomfortably.

This is it. After years of planning on living a quite life where he pins over Lydia while she ignores him, monitors his dads dietary habits, and has increasingly violent Call Of Duty tournaments with Scott, he's instead running away to New York with Lydia because Scott's decided they've gone off the deep end and his dads too drunk to care what goes in his mouth or comes out.

So maybe things aren't going according to plan. So what if it feels like he's finally lost both his parents, or like Scott's the one twisting a knife in his gut? Plans change, and this is what's best for him. For once, he's putting himself first.

He pulls his head away and watches the children on the slides chase each other for a moment. They're laughing, care free and ignorant to the dangers of the world, and for one achingly clear moment he wishes he was that age again before it disappears, leaving him confused. Knowing what he knows now, would he still willingly go through what he has? Rain drops splatter on his window shield, like the weather sensed his mood and decided to go along with it. Outside, it's grey and windy.

Probably, he concedes. After all, if not him, it would've been someone else.

When Stiles gets home he sits in the driveway, working up his courage. After an internal pep talk he finally jumps out and walks up the drive, unlocking the door with shaking fingers. He feels his stomach sink when he walks in. His dad is sitting at the kitchen table, uniform still on and a glass of Bourbon resting in from of him. It's reminiscent of earlier with Lydia's mom, except while Natalie had been a hysterical drunk Stiles dad is quite, withdrawn. He looks at Stiles with a pinched face and sad eyes.

"Scott was already here, wasn't he?" Stiles asks, resigned. The keys dangle limply from his hand.

The sheriff looks away,"Sit down, son, I think we need to talk." His voice is steady.

Stiles takes one step back, heart rabbit fast,"You want to ship me back to Eichen House?"

"What else am I suppose to do!" His dad explodes, slamming his fist down. It makes Stiles flinch and a burst of resentment swell up in him.

"You're suppose to believe me when I say I'm getting better." His voice is nothing but a whisper.

"Believe you? I can't tell when you're lying or telling the truth anymore, Stiles. I don't know what to do with you." There's a bitter laugh.

Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes,"Talk to me, dad. Help me find a doctor. Go to therapy with me if you have to. We can even do those stupid trust exercises you use to be so fond of. But don't send me to a insane asylum. Please, just stop pushing me away." One slips down his cheek but the sheriff just watches, face blank. His heart is breaking into a million shattered pieces.

"Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't know where to start. I arranged a van to pick you up at ten tonight and take you." It's like a bucket of ice water being thrown at his face.

Stiles turns around and runs up the stairs with the scale tucked safely underneath his arms, face an angry red from embarrassment and swelling anger, at himself, at Scott, at his dad. Tears start sliding down his cheeks steadily when his dad doesn't call him back, finally realizing the wedge between them had been growing for years. He can't go back now. He's officially lost both his parents.

His dad doesn't care anymore.

When he gets to his room he swings it open and immediately goes to dig under bed, grabbing his empty lacrosse bag and tossing it on top. He had opted to sit the season out this year, but kept the gear. He pauses to send a quick text to Lydia.

(6:38) _Scott's making his rounds, already been here. Change of plans, I'm coming over and we're waiting at the station._

Stiles slides his phone back into his pocket and starts packing. His computer and chargers go first, before he grab clothes from his dresser and closet at random and shoves them underneath and above them, creating a barrier. He barely recognizes half of them, most from shopping trips Lydia is so fond of forcing him on because she has nobody else to anymore. Next is a small wooden box full of photos of his mom when she was younger, a pressed flower his grandma gave him years ago, carefully wrapped, and old love letters he caught his dad throwing out the day of the funeral and snuck out, anything to keep a part of her with him. Even if he feels weird reading them. There's a few photos of him and his mom when they were younger but he ignores them, double checking the one's of Erica and Boyd are still sitting there, photos their parents had pressed into his hands when he went to their house after the empty casket funeral and told them they use to be friends. There's a copy of Old Yeller that had been Boyd's favorite and has his name carefully printed in the corner of the front page by him, and a small pocket notebook full of Erica's sloppy doodles. Further down is Heathers favorite CD, scratched and dusty after years of use.

He takes a breathe and carefully open an identical plastic box next to it, rooting until he finds the most recent picture's of Scott and his dad he has, and then adds them to the one he's clutching. It makes his heart clench, makes everything more real, but in the end they made the final cut. He keeps repeating that to himself when he places the box in his bag and then mechanically packs the rest. There's the mix CD's he made himself, a copy of Les Miserables that has small comments in the margins by him and his mom and highlighted passages, a pillow and blanket, an old photo album, the scale, and that's it. Seventeen years worth of his life shoved into a lacrosse bag and slung over his shoulder.

His dad is asleep at the table when he thunders down. Stiles pauses a moment to study him, taking in the greying hair at his temples and pinched eyes, new wrinkles spreading. He swallows thickly and jerks his eyes away, slipping outside silently and checking his phone. Leaving his dad is one of the hardest things he's ever done in his life, but he comforts himself with the knowledge that he'll send him a letter from New York. An untraceable one. Raindrop flattens his hair to his head but he ignores it.

There's a new message from Lydia.

(6:55) _He came right after you left. Mom and him are still talking. Already know what she's going to say. I'm waiting on the corner with J for you._

Stiles doesn't answer, just slides into his jeep and starts it. The mantra _we're doing this, we're running away_ echoes through his head as he pulls out of the driveway. Lydia and Jackson are standing at the corner of the street when he drives up, four black suitcases at her feet and a bag hiked up her shoulders, and nothing with him. She's wearing a pair of skinny jeans, boots, and a baggie black hoodie pulled up around her face, while he wears a similar outfit. He only recognizes her by the soaked red hair spilling out of the corners.

"What's up with the wardrobe change?" He asks when he rushes out of the vehicle to help with the suitcases. She jumps, then looks up and over him critically. Jackson looks bored, but there's a tell-tell twitch to the corner of his mouth Stiles doesn't want to think too hard about, or he might do something stupid like hug him. Instead, Stiles raises a single finger in salute, only momentarily surprised when he does it back.

"We're about to become wanted." She points out, primly watching as Jackson and him lug the slippery bags into the back, wetting his seats, before climbing in with him. A puddle forms under her. Jackson grumbles under his breath about being stuck with the baggage but moves to the middle seat so he can listen better. He's uncharacteristically silent. "There's cameras at the station that they can track us by." She throws a dark red hoodie at him he hadn't seen her hiding behind her back, as well as a pair of thick glasses."Put them on and pull the hoodie up. Keep your head down and don't talk to anyone."

He curses himself for forgetting-his dads a cop, for gods sake-and tugs the hoodie on over his white shirt. He shivers, only now noticing how cold it is. Lydia turns the heater on without having to ask.

"I texted Derek about an earlier train. He said he'll have Blaze get us passes for the eight o'clock one instead of ten." She says casually.

"Eight? Lydia, that's in less than an hour!"

She smiles,"Guess you better gun it then."

"Fuck." He mutters and does just that, going as fast as he can without risking getting pulled over.

She changed the subject,"So what did your dad say?"

He stays quite for a moment, and when he finally talks his voice comes out small,"He was going to send me. Said he didn't know what to do anymore. You?"

She looks concerned for him, reaching out to lay a cold hand over his. He shoots her a grateful look but she's already looking out the window, deep in thought. Jackson glares from the back.

"I don't know what she said, and I didn't stick around to find out. I don't think Scott knows I heard because he tried to talk to me when I left. He even smiled." She sounds blank.

"I'm sorry Lyds," he apologizes truthfully. It just solidifies what he already knows: that leaving is their best bet.

He waits for a second then hesitantly throws a look over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Jackson's stony face crumbling before it goes right back up. "And, uh, you? Why don't you have any bags?"

A takes a while for him to answer, long enough for Stiles to assume he isn't going to.

"Jared and Kim are out of town so I left a letter. I don't have anything that I can't buy again later. I pulled a few thousand dollars from my credit cards, and Lydia packed a few outfits for me, but I don't have anything else. I don't _need_ anything else." Jackson sounds defiant, like he expects Stiles to argue or insult him, but instead he just feels sad.

"It's okay buddy, we'll find you something worth keeping."

Jackson looks suspicious, hunched in on himself like Stiles is about to whip a camera out and scream _surprise_! When he doesn't, he pulls his hoodie up and mutters,"Thanks."

...

Stiles doesn't realize until they've parked at the train station that they'll have to leave his jeep behind.

"Come on," Lydia hisses impatiently, tugging his arm. Jackson taps his foot.

"No, my baby!" He all but wails.

She slaps his shoulder,"Get a hold of yourself, Stiles! It's just a vehicle."

He looks at her with sad eyes,"It was my moms, Lydia. If we leave it here it'll be towed or taken in as evidence.

She stills, then releases him. "I know somebody,"she says slowly,"who might help us."

"Who?" He asks hopefully.

"Danny. He'd keep it in his parents garage until we can send for it, since they're in Rome right now. And it may even throw the cops off our trail, since they'd be expecting us to have taken it. Yeah, that's actually perfect. Here." She nudges the bags at her feet toward him."Go wait at the platform for Blaze. She has our tickets and the train should be here any moment. I'll find you."

"Wait, what makes you think he'll do it? No questions asked?"

She grabs for her phone,"Don't worry about it." With that, she turns around and slips away into the crowd, regal even in regular clothes.

He sighs but obliges, pulling the hoodie tighter around him in an attempt to block out out the steadily drizzling rain. He swings both slippery bags onto his back and takes a suitcases in both hands while Jackson takes the other two, still glaring at the ground and avoiding eye contact. Stiles grumbles under his breath about her leaving them for him, but he does it easily. For the first time outside of a life or death situation he's glad for the extensive werewolf training program they put him through. He may be a rag doll for them, but it means he's gotten stronger than most human teens his age.

People jostle him as he makes his way underground, snatches of conversion and noise making him dizzy. Stiles grabs Jackson so he doesn't get lost and pushes through, using the suitcases as weapons. He finally clears the crowd, Jackson yanking free as soon as they do but not voicing a complaint, and spots a empty seat just as a old women does. They lock eye before racing toward it. For a old granny she hobbles fast, but he's faster and makes it first. She looks scandalized, glaring at him like he dipped her puppies on boiling tobacco sauce. He has the overwhelming urge to stick his tongue out.

"Well, that wasn't very friendly." A voice chastens from behind him, sounding amusing.

He whips around, almost making the suitcases he placed in the v of his legs in case of pick pocketers topple. Jackson flinches, and really, what's wrong with him?

There's a women leaning on the pillar next to them, less than two feet away. She has pale, almost transparent skin, bright blue eyes, and small freckles everywhere. Her cheekbones are sharp, and a pair of black skinny jeans and a leather jacket clothe her lithe body.

He can't tell the exact shade with the sunglasses on, but she looks like she has deep blue hair.

"Not that I'm opposed to a little friendly checking out," the women muses,"I do believe we have a time schedule. Stiles and Jackson, right?"

He nods, speechless. Jackson glares and rubs his wrist.

"Not anymore." She pushes off the pillar and tosses a passport and license at him he struggles to catch but Jackson does with perfect ease. He turns it over in his hands, blinking when he sees a picture of him with the words "Stiles Hale" underneath on the license. He looks over and sees Jackson's has the same last name. "Ditch any paperwork with your old name on it. We don't want a trail, and I, for one, don't feel like getting arrested for kidnapping. We'll get you any other documents you need: birth certificates, school paperwork, medical history. We have the means."

"I-thanks." It hits him again that this is real, that he's really running away to live with an emotionally stunted Alpha werewolf and his equally deranged younger sister, in a building owned by goblin if what Cora is to be believed.

The fact that Derek agreed so easily to smuggling a group of teenagers out of the state shouldn't make him feel as fuzzy a it does.

"You're welcome. My names Blaze, but I figured you already knew that." Her smirk is just the right amount of cocky and sly. She smiles and raises her eyebrows like someone who knows the secrets to the universe.

Oh god, there's three of them.

"Mind if I sit there?" She nods toward the empty spot between Jackson and him and he shakes his head, but before she can the older boy sharply scoots closer to Stiles and continuous to look like someone insulted his dick size. Blaze gives them both appreciative once over before stepping forward and sprawling out, murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like  _territorial_ under her breath. It makes sense, since she's an unknown werewolf and must have his pack protective instincts in overdrive.  It makes Stiles feel something suspiciously like fondness.

She's gorgeous. He knows it and she definitely does, and while she fits his type (hot, dangerous, light years out of his league), she seems a little too feral for his taste. The way she moves like she's stalking prey reminds him too much of Erica.

"How did you know it was me?" He asks belatedly, suspicion kicking in. She rolls her eyes. Lydia's going to love her.

"Well aside from the photos, and your scent-which was described in a disturbing amount of detail-I saw you get out of your jeep. Not many vehicles that fit that description around here. The time was right, all three descriptions were, and I heard the girl say your name: it wasn't that hard of a guess."

He relaxes, mentally filing away his plans to tease the Hale's about knowing his scent so well later. It's oddly touching, even if its Derek who probably did most of the describing. Actually, it'd be insulting if after all the time they spent together Derek didn't have at least a vague idea about what he smells like.

"So where's little miss red?" She asks, looking pointedly toward the glittery suitcases by his feet, the sparkles being something he didn't noticed until recently.

He shrugs, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them before his teeth can start chattering. There's no heater in the station, just flickering lights and people rushing about. It's probably a good thing in the middle of the day when people are struggling to move a foot a minute, but this late at night there's not enough people to crowd and create a lot body heat. His damp clothes and hair aren't helping, but Jackson suddenly pressing his thigh against his does. He's giving off body heat like nobody's business. "Yelling at poor, unsuspecting passerby's I suspect. She's pretty scary."

"I do try." Lydia preens. Speak of the devil.

"You guys really have to stop sneaking up on me. It's a pattern I don't like." He complains, much to Lydia's delight.

"Have to keep you on your toes somehow," she singsongs, before turning to Blaze. "I'm assuming you're our smuggler?"

Blaze rolls her eyes,"And bodyguard, if Derek and Cora have any say. They're weirdly protective of you two. I could probably recite the lecture they gave me by memory."

Stiles smirks,"Do it."

"Right!" Lydia claps, holding up her phone,"Our train leaves in ten minutes. Danny agreed to come get it. He said keep the keys, he doesn't need them." That doesn't worry him as much as it should. Danny's mom use to be a family friend, so he knows the significance of the vehicle.

Stiles and Blaze stand up, and she reaches over to snag two of the bags before he can protest. Oh, he likes her.

"Can I see both of your guys phones?" She asks casually, shifting the bags to one hand and smiling disarmingly.

"Why?" Lydia asks suspiciously.

"So I can check for tracking devices?" Lydia must not like the unsaid "obviously" hanging in the air, as she reaches into Stiles pocket and hands both of theirs over before he can protest.

"Thanks!" She grins sweetly and then crushes them in her hand, dropping the mangled pieces to the floor.

"What the fuck?" Stiles shouts, lurching forward as if to save his poor device. Lydia, for once, is too stunned to do anything but stare, and Jackson growls lowly before he steps in front of them protectively. He's pretty cool when he's not being a dick.

For one overwhelmingly frightening moment he's afraid she's actually their kidnapper, sent by _who fucking knows_ , but then the girl starts walking, gesturing for them to follow impatiently,"Your dads a cop, yeah? He can track you two by phones. Don't worry, we'll get you new ones. Now hurry up before we get stuck here and you two get arrested for running away before you've even left town."

Lydia and him each exchange looks but pick up the bags and follow after, a reluctant Jackson trailing after. They're not sure what to make of her, but she's their best bet at getting out. He decides to let it go for now. He can rage later.

"Thank god I didn't bring my phone." Jackson huffs to himself. They ignore him.

"So why did Derek send you instead of coming out himself, or even Cora?" Lydia asks when they catch up, already out of her stupor.

Blaze smiles, a genuine one for the first time,"You'll have to ask him that question. But it's pretty cool."

"Give us a hint?" Stiles asks, curiosity piped.

The corner of her lip twitches,"Sand. Bathtub. Fins."

He gapes at her,"Mermaids?"

She raises an eyebrow at him,"Wow," she mutters,"He wasn't kidding. You are sharp."

He'll think about that sentence later."No, but mermaids? And what do you mean about a bathtub? Did he kidnap one? Is he making his way down in the kidnapping world? First mermaids, and then two teenage kids? Is that part of his "new start" bullshit? Because let me tell you, I don't think that's a very healthy way of coping."

"Stiles?" Lydia sighs, obviously bored. They stop in front of the closed doors of the train.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

He only manages it for a few seconds,"So you're what, a blue werewolf?" Stiles remembers Cora texting them something about Asena.

Her face shutters,"Werewolves? If Derek hadn't made sure to inform me that you two are about as ignorant as newborn calfs when it comes to the supernatural and our customs, I'd rip your throat out."

Lydia looks interested in her again, keen eyes reevaluating,"So what do we call you? Or them?"

The train doors open, and Blaze reaches back to grab both of their sleeves in one hand. She manhandles them through the small onslaught of wet people, making sure they stay at the very front though they don't need to, and finds them a booth like seat at the very back. Its a nice train, he notes. They're only a dozen people or so even if they all shoved like a herd, but they're all dressed expensively in suits and dresses. They stick out like sore thumbs, but Blaze doesn't seem to mind the curious, if not judgmental, looks thrown their way. Most of the seats are like theirs, and not the cheap ones that line the wall or jut out like on a school bus, but like the group seats at an expensive restaurant. There's even carpet under their feet. The train is long enough that the seats are big and private, and empty enough that everyone is evenly spaced out. Stiles goes to put the suitcases on top but Blaze shakes her head and shoves their bags underneath them, where's there's an enclosed space hallowed out, obviously made for this.

"Easier if we need to run." she says, catching his expression.

"Is that why you wanted us all the way back here?" he questions, not surprised at her answer. It's a very real possibility. From who though, he's not sure.

"That and the exit. It also gives us a good view of all the passengers." She points toward the bright red door behind him, large warning letters littering the glass. He can only see the first few feet behind the train, light from inside spilling out, but beyond that is complete darkness. It makes him even more uncomfortable when the windows on the sides show the same. How wide is the tunnel?

A feeling of uneasiness settles over him but he covers it with a joke,"What are we going to do, jump?"

Blaze flops down on the wall seat, stretching her legs out. She doesn't look amused,"If it comes to that. I can pull the emergency break and fight them off until its slowed down enough for us to jump, and then Stiles will hold my arm and Lydia will grab his, and I'll lead us using my spidey senses. Jackson can use his own."

Stiles smirks,"Oh yeah, we're keeping you."

She grins right back and turns her gaze to Lydia, finally answering. "You can call us faoladh. Typically found in Irish mythology, but it's usually what we call ourselves. Some of the newer, more ignorant and barbaric packs call themselves werewolves, but they're looked down upon. We're protectors, they're savages. Not exactly in the way they treat others, but in their understanding." Her mouth twists.

"But what are you?" Lydia prompts. She's crowding close to Stiles as if she needs the comfort and doesn't know how to ask for it. She nudges one of his arms and he hesitantly brings it over her shoulder, but she snuggles right into it, shivering. It's warmer on the train but they haven't been on long enough for it to sink into their bones. Jackson looks away from where he's seated directly across from them, back to the front of the train. His jaw clenches and he goes back to rubbing his wrist, but clearly continuous to listen.

"Me?" She shrugs,"Faoladh as well, just a different branch. You can trace my ancestry back to the blue manned Asena. There's several myths, but they're all pretty fucked up. The only one that actually has half human half wolves in it though is probably the worst. A Turkish village was attacked by a Chinese soldiers who killed everyone, but took pity on a baby boy and cut his arms and legs off. As the army started to leave the commander began to regret his decision to save the baby, so he goes back to kill him. But by then he was already rescued by a blue wolf named Asena. She nurses the boy and when he grows up mates with him. She gives birth to blue pelted shape shifters."

Jackson makes a disgusted noise and Stiles cringes internally. but being at a lost wins in the end. "One, I could've gone without that knowledge, and two, I honestly have no idea who the faoladh are."

Blaze seems to take a deep breath, tilting her head back. The light catches on diamond lip piercings, but before he can ask what happens to them when she shifts she's talking again,"Werewolves are the new generation of bitten humans. How someone refers to themselves is the biggest indicator of how much they know, how old their pack is, and what their costumes are. Werewolves are looked down upon because they pose a threat to our secret. They're usually ones who get bitten by a stray or fetal. With nobody there to teach them our customs, they become sloppy and lazy. You can't do that with today's technology." The train lurches forward."I guess the human equivalent for werewolves would be bastards. If I were to bite one of you right now, you'd be a faoladh as well, just like by extension you'd be Hale pack, but unless I had told you that you wouldn't know. You didn't grow up with the supernatural so you'd go around mistakingly calling yourself a werewolf, and that would be a glaring beacon for other supernaturals to stay away."

"So is it like with the Alpha thing? You get bite by one, and until you break it off you're stuck with them?" Lydia asks.

Blaze sighs again,"No, it's like if a werecoyote were to bite you you'd be a werecoyote, or if a mermaid kissed you you'd be a mermaid. With us the distinction just isn't as noticeable or blatant. If I bite you, you'd have a blue coat, but if Derek did you'd have a regular pelt. The color would depend on your personality."

For the first time all day Stiles feels light, natural curiosity winning him over,"So what type are there?"

"Like I said, the differences aren't as blatant as if I were to bite you would be. Some are just in size, but usually it's what we do. That's why unless your alpha stays behind and tells you who his ancestor was, you wouldn't know. Say your never met your father or mother or anyone who knew them, but suddenly what their jobs were are the most important thing in the world. How the hell would you even find that out, especially if you don't know their names? It's next to impossible. Faoladh are guardians and protectors, children of Lycaon are tricksters, and Fenrir warriors. The children of Lupa are leaders while children of Geri and Freki are advisers. They're hundreds of different gods and wolves we owe our shape shifting to, and which that is sort of our assigned second parentage. All of our traditions are different. Some are more violent, others are more gentle. Some worship old gods and some move state to state a lot, but it all depends on what pack you join. Sometimes they're mixed." She shrugs,"We don't all have our own names, just ancestors. We all answer to vlko-dlak though, so if you're ever in doubt use that, not werewolf."

Stiles is fascinated,"What does vlko-dlak mean?"

Lydia looks smug,"Wolf-skin."

"And, uh, what are we?" The ticket puncher gives Stiles a suspicious glance but his attention is diverted when Blaze holds four out without looking.

"You," she points at Lydia, ignoring the man,"Are an offspring of the aos sí, or The Fair People. A harbinger of death. Descendent of the fairies, the wailing women, a banshee. Take your pick." She shrugs and the man-Paul, his name tag read-turns around and hurries away,"It's rare to have one in a pack as they're typically loners, or they tie themselves to the family their parents did and keep their distance, but it's a powerful one up."

"Wait, tie themselves to a family?" Lydia looks confused for the first time since this started.

Blaze blinks,"He wasn't kidding about you guys knowing nothing. This is worse than I thought." She tugs her hair, a nervous habit from the looks of it,"Why do you think that other girl went crazy? What's her name, Mary? Merlin? Death happens at every moment of every day. Banshees are suppose to predict death. You'd go insane surrounded by that all the time, feeling and hearing the passing of every person or spirit within a hundred miles. Luckily you aren't very strong yet, or I can't say you'd be very lucid at the moment. What you're going to have to do is find a family to bind yourself to using an old ritual, and then _bamn._ Your powers are only tuned into the immediate members of that family. Or pack, if you choose. You'll have to do it before your teacher comes. She's flying all the way in from Africa at Derek's request."

Lydia looks thoughtful,"It can be broken, right? Or expanded to only include more people?"

Blaze nods,"You can choose to only focus on one person, though that's rare, or add more as you get stronger and build an endurance."

"Then I choose Stiles." She says it so casually, like its the only reasonable choice, that he's filled with fondness and a warm feeling spreads to his fingertips. Jackson grimaces.

"Derek though you would. Of course, it also depends on what sort of banshee you are, but we'll discuss that later. I'm crap at science, Kamilla can explain it better,"she hums, and turns to him,"As for you, you're a spark. A witch, I guess humans would call it, but capable of doing more than a few flimsy spells. Shapeshifting, telekinesis, element summoning-you should be able to learn it all eventually. And if you decide to stay with us, you'll be out emissary."

He feels his lips tugging up at the corners,"I think I'd be fine with that."

"What do you mean, what type of banshee I am?" Lydia questions, pressing forward eagerly. Her hips press into Stiles' uncomfortably, and he imagines her face is a mix of jealousy at Blaze knowing and frustration for having to ask. Their hoodies are still up though, so he can't tell. Thank god their clothes have finally dried.

"Everything has some sort of scientific formula. Everything you see around you, everything you can do-it all has an explanation. We may not always know them, but they're there. Scientist's in China and Russia have been collaborating on this, trying to figure out exactly what makes a banshee tick." She pauses to collect her thoughts, face pinched,"As far as I can understand its a sort of echolocation. There's a theory that every alternate reality exists at the same time, in the same place. Some are in the same time periods as us, some are stuck in the ice age or already forward by a few hundred years. In some, the difference is as small as a women naming her child Mary instead of Briana, in others Hitler succeeded in taking over the world. Every version of reality is out there, somewhere, coexisting with ours. The thing is, time is a human concept. The universe doesn't have it. So even though we're only in 2012, in this version of the timeline we're also in 3,000 BC. Everything thats already happened, is still happening, and everything that could happen is somewhere. Does that make sense?"

Lydia's nodding along like they're discussing something as simple as one plus one, but he's struggling to wrap his head around it. The man several feet in front of them who's been listening looks just as confused."You said everything that could happen. So are our future's aren't set in stone?"

Blaze makes a frustrated noise,"No and yes. You still have free will, and our timeline can change anytime, but the point still stands that even if you choose a green cup for your water another version of you is choosing blue. As far as scientists can tell, a banshee can see the past in our timeline and the closest others when it comes death. Since death is a universal concept and doesn't change parallel to parallel, it creates a thin veil between them they seem to be able to tune into. They can pinpoint the deaths of those in our timeline and the timeline closest to ours. They're not just sensing ours timeline, which is why it's not always correct. The stronger and more tuned in a banshee is, the more accurate they are. They sort through dozens of timelines in the span of seconds without realizing it, and then see the death that are most likely to happen with how our timeline is going so far. No matter how many times a timeline plays through, it's not constant, so there's never a guarantee that they'll get it right. The images and sounds she senses are the shapes of the future that the person sees and feels right before they pass, so it's a sort of echolocation, but it's rare for those to filter through on the wavelengths. Sometimes the more experienced ones can tap into other waves, like the ones your brain gives out. They become mind readers, of sorts, but there's never even a reported case of it happening on purpose. Or maybe they do, but they're never sane enough afterwards to tell us "

Lydia purses her lips,"So what I'm hearing are the equations and waves brought on by events of the past and corresponding parallel universes, where my mind then filters through them and shows me the most likely person to die next? And my scream helps tune out the world around me and into the common veil between our universes and death, sorting through the same people from different timelines who have already passed to give me an idea of who's death fits the most with the path our universe is on?"

 Blaze blinks,"I-uh, yeah, that. What she said. Derek told me you're smart, but he didn't mention you're genius."

Stiles whistles and leans further back, stretching his legs out and observing the new information."That...makes an odd sort of sense. Thanks for dumbing it down."

She laughs and maybe even blushes, but the tinted sunglasses make it hard to tell. "That was the simplified version of the dumbed downed one I got."

Lydia jumps from next him when the sound of squealing wheels stops next to them,"Anything from the kitchen, dears?" A plump man smiles sweetly and holds a pen and notebook up. "Free of charge," he adds. Stiles could get use to this.

Jackson and Blaze don't flinch so he suspects they noticed him coming. He raises an eyebrow at Blaze, silently asking if its okay, and she answers by lifting up onto her elbows and pinning the man with a stare. "Got any hot chocolate?"

He looks delighted by her question, lighting up. "I just got new ingredients for it! I've been waiting for an excuse to make use them."

Blaze blinks, obviously not having expected that sort of response. She looked like she was aiming more toward _not really but I don't want to be mauled so I'll find something._  "I...guess I'll have one then. Nothing else."

The man sticks his tongue out and writes furiously, dark skin glistening where sweat runs down his forehead,"Mhm. And the rest?"

"French fries?" Stiles suggests hopefully, and the cook-his apron's sporting an awful lot of cooking stains to just be a waitress or whatever the train equivalence is-smiles even wider. He kind of reminds Stiles of Santa Clause.

"Of course! Hot chocolate for everyone else as well?"

Lydia nods and nudges Jackson with her foot when he takes too long. He lets out a small yes and then looks embarrassed about liking something sweet. He'll probably drink a couple of raw eggs and nails later to make up for it.

Lydia looks amused. "We'll all have whatever you're serving for dinner tonight, as well."

"Ah, yes. It's steak, potatoes, and fried asparagus. Will that be fine?" He grins hopefully, like cooking for them is the highlight of the day. What sort of train gives free steak to it's passengers?

Derek wasn't lying about being filthy rich, apparently.

Blaze shakes her head and his face drops. "Sorry, I've already ate. But I'll definitely have breakfast." And just like that, it's back. He tucks his pencil behind his ear and practically skips off, cart bumping along in front of him. Stiles wishes he was happy about the food-curly fries _are_ his favorite-, but instead he's panicking, cursing himself for not thinking it through. The last thing he wants is to wake up screaming in a room full of strangers.

"Right." Blaze declares, getting their attention. "I've been running around all day collecting your guy's paperwork, so I'm going to sleep. You can ask me more in the morning, but until then don't wake me unless somebody's being brutally murdered."

"Paperwork?" Lydia whispers to him, watching Blaze turn over and stretch out with appreciative eyes. Huh.

"New names." He whispers back. "All Hale."

She nods,"Makes sense. Same first name still?"

"Ours was."

She shrugs out from under his arms and reaches under her."Good. Here, you forgot these." She comes up with a bottle of sleeping pills and hands them to him. A feeling of relief washes over him.

"Thanks." He says quietly, keenly aware of Jacksons curious look. He's still rubbing at his wrist and it's getting annoying, but he ignores it in favor of popping two and swallowing dry.

Lydia gives a quick nod of her head again and reaches into one of the pull apart bags she set next to her and takes out a computer, booting it up. She scoots down until her hips are right next to Blaze's head and feet in Stile's lap, where he wordlessly pulls her sneakers off as well as his own.

"What're you doing?'

A eyebrow goes up,"Tumblr. Someone has to show them what fashion really looks like."

He laughs, surprised, and wraps a hand around her ankle. They sit in comfortable silence for the next ten minutes, only interrupted by the click of her computer keys before the man is back with the trolley, this time full of covered food. It smells amazing.

"Here you are." He says cheerfully, and loads the plates and lidded cups onto the small rise table nailed to the floor in front of them. He disappears quickly after that, leaving them to set upon the food like a pack of wild animals. Which they're absolutely not. They move Blaze's drink to the side for when she wakes up. Lydia finishes quickly, not bothering to eat daintily like she usually does, and then follows the other girl's example and curls into a ball in the very corner, falling asleep seconds later. He can't imagine it's comfortable, but doesn't say anything and continues to eat his curly fries in the sudden blaring silence, already uncomfortably full. It has to be nine by now, and the other occupants are getting ready for the only stop for another five hours. There's one couple towards the very front in casual clothes, so he assumes the others will be getting off at this one. By the time another fifteen minutes has passed they've stopped and let them all off-and Stiles was right, surprise-and he still hasn't finished his food. He tries to push on for Lydia, knowing she'll be disappointed if she finds out, but when he takes another bite bile starts rising to the back of his throat. He's up and out of his seat before he really thinks about it, only absently processing the startled look Jackson sends him. He's darts down the aisle and finds the toilet maybe thirty feet down. He barely has time to note its a pretty big one and then he's collapsing to his knees and puking. It's loud, and he hardly has to roll his stomach.

By the time he's finished he's crying, because he _couldn't fucking do it_ , big, ugly sobs that make his body shake. There's a loud knock at the door and a frantic "Stiles?", that only makes him cry harder and flush in embarrassment.

"Don't come in." He pleads, words muffled from where he's pressed his face into his knees and curled into a ball, but its too late. The door's pushed open and Jackson pauses, obviously taking it all in, before it's just as quickly shut.

"Jesus fuck," he curses, and then he's dropping down and tugging Stiles to his chest. Stiles struggles, beating at his chest because _no_ , he doesn't deserve to be comforted, he fucking  _brought it on himself_ , but Jackson doesn't let go, even when Stiles starts yelling at him, calling him names.

He gets tired eventually, finally giving up on driving the other boy away, and just slumps against his chest. It feels nice to be hugged.

Sensing he's more reasonable, Jackson tries to pull away but Stiles brings his hands up and clenches his shirt. "Don't. Please don't leave me." He begs, voice breaking. Jackson immediately comes back.

"What happened?" He asks softly instead. It's so uncharacteristically Jackson, so sweet, that it finally hits Stiles how fucked up what he's been doing is. It makes more tears roll down his face and he hiccups, squeezing his eyes closed.

"I couldn't do it. I couldn't even hold one meal down. That's not-that's not fucking normal, Jackson. I thought I'd be able to just pick a fork up and start eating again after the nightmares went away and I can't. Fucking. Do. It." His voice raises again, near hysterical, and Jackson holds him tighter. His life, really.

"Stiles," He says gently,"You have an eating disorder, Lydia told me. Your stomach shrunk which means you'll have to start slow, but we're here for you. You know that, right? I may be a dick but I'm not cruel. We'll get you help."

"But what if I fucked my body up permanently?" Stiles whispers,"What if I can't ever eat a full meal again? What if I'll always want to puke? I promised Lydia I wouldn't do it again and I already fucked that up."

Jackson shakes his head,"People recover everyday, Stiles, but they don't do it without a few slips. I'm not going to lie: you'll probably do it again. It's part of recovering. They're supernatural doctors and therapists in New York who can help you, and if that doesn't work I'll lock you in a room and force feed you myself until you're better. Or Lydia will."

Stiles gives a wet laugh and his heart finally starts slowing down. "Why're you being nice to me?"

Jackson pauses and then sighs, pulling away. This time Stiles lets him. He sits back on his hunches and fiddles with his hoodie sleeves, while Stiles takes that time to wipe his face off.

"Because in the end, all three of us are leaving Beacon Hills to escape something. You're not going to get better there, Lydia isn't ever going to get as high as she wants in the business world, and I..." Jackson pauses and then sighs again, pulling his hoodie sleeve up. Stiles gasps and feels sick when he sees the black handprint there.

"But your werewolf healing...?" He asks, staring.

Jackson pulls the sleeve down."I didn't let it. I needed the motivation, or else I'd have stayed. It's easy to forget how shitty someone is when they're being nice. I didn't want to."

And Stiles gets that, in ways he wish he didn't.

Jackson stands up and reaches over to flush the toilet, making Stiles turn red again, but he doesn't even blink, just offers a hand to him. "Now come on, lets go to sleep. We'll get you some more pills and if you have any nightmares I'll wake you."

Stiles grabs it, and for the first time since Derek walked away he feels like he has people he can lean on.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a two part series, with no actual face to face interaction between Stiles and Derek in this part. I have taken liberties with several characters to make this story work: namely, Scott and the Sheriff. The story will have Stiles, Derek, Jackson, Malia, and Lydia as canon characters from the show, but the others won't make another appearance. Four new original characters will be introduced as constant's. Stiles eating disorder is a direct offspring of what's happened to them, and will be treated accordingly, no true love cures all bullshit. All tagged character will eventually make their way into the story as more than one liners.  
> The theory for the banshee hearing is all credited to Jeff Davis and his amazing ability to plant clues for those who look for it.


End file.
